


my prison and my paradise

by moritzofsuburbia



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Biting, M/M, Marking, Possessive Behavior, Queen of the Damned, vague handjob?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12617852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moritzofsuburbia/pseuds/moritzofsuburbia
Summary: Maybe the wounds serve as a reminder, or maybe a symbol of something akin to ownership.





	my prison and my paradise

**Author's Note:**

> is anyone even still in the vc fandom? anyway i wrote this thing like 4 years ago, just found it again, and wanted something to post. this takes place during queen of the damned and the title is from chained up by vixx

The bartender hands him the glass of whiskey, and at first, Daniel can still hope that the man isn't paying enough attention. Surely he can pass unnoticed this one time. But inevitably the man's eyes fall on his neck, eyebrows knitting and gaze lingering in curiosity, and Daniel can instantly feel his face going crimson. At least this guy has the decency not to say anything – the same can't be said for some others who have taken notice of the scabs and bruises marring Daniel's neck in the past. At this point, he's stopped bothering to even try hiding them.

 

Sure, Armand could heal up the marks seconds after they blossomed if he wanted to – the key phrase here being _if he wanted to_. Maybe the wounds serve as a reminder, or maybe a symbol of something akin to ownership. No matter how fucked up that might sound, Daniel wouldn't put it past the vampire to have such a reason. And once the marks are given time to fade, Daniel's skin once again becomes a clean canvas for his lover, and the immortal enjoys his art far too greatly to let his mortal remain untouched for long.

 

The worst times are when they're out with other people when it happens – businessmen or art curators or dancers or criminals, any brand of human life you can imagine. These occasions would almost be funny if they weren't so embarrassing on Daniel's part. Armand will excuse himself, sending his companion a sly look that says he has no choice but to follow. Daniel worries that someone will come into the bathroom and see them, these are public places after all, but Armand whispers something rushed in his ear, _nobody will come, I won't let them, you know I can make that happen_ , and Daniel's head falls back of its own accord as those lips close around a tender spot on his throat.

 

They return to the group, Armand with just a hint of a satisfied smile on his face and Daniel following behind, a little paler than before, with disheveled hair and a new bruise decorating his throat. And though the eyes of onlookers burn his skin, nobody says a word.

 

Sometimes Armand likes to see how far he can push it. Sometimes in bathrooms, but often in even riskier locations like a closet at someone's party or an alley behind a club. The back of Daniel's head hits the wall, a hand on either side of him locking him in place. Those hands then travel to his sides to hold him, to feel the contours of his body before inching beneath his shirt and meeting warm skin. The hands dip lower, taking their time to tease him and draw slow circles on his hip bones with fingers that press just as hard as his lips do, before they slide low enough to make Daniel's eyelids flutter shut. He has to bite his own lip to the point of drawing blood to hold back even the faintest sigh, because if he sighs he'll moan, and if he moans he'll cry out the demon's name, and if he cries his name he'll scream with how fucking _good_ it all feels. And the whole time, Armand's lips are pressed to his throat, kissing and grazing the skin with his teeth, knowing exactly the spots that will get the best reactions out of him, make him lift his hips to press against his lover's touch.

 

They return to the real world quickly once it's over, and the way Armand resumes conversation with outsiders, it makes Daniel wonder if their brief escape from reality really happened at all.

 

Either way, during the day while Armand is gone and asleep in a coffin somewhere, Daniel can't resist touching himself to try and bring back that feeling that Armand stirred in him, that unbelievable pleasure, to conjure it in a time and place where he doesn't have to hold in his moans or glance around the corner.

 

It never works. It never feels the same.

 

And the next night, Armand returns, smiling at Daniel and smiling at the artwork covering his throat.


End file.
